


That Damn Paul McCartney

by goddesswan



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-26 19:27:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12065484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddesswan/pseuds/goddesswan
Summary: Prompt: We bumped into each other in the street and you were grinning like a cocky asshole the whole time so I stalked off only to realize I'm wearing your shirt.





	That Damn Paul McCartney

Atrocious, blasphemous, contemptible, disgraceful, erroneous. She could hit every letter of the alphabet with words that have been used to describe her. Not for the aspects of her life that usually riled a person’s feathers: having a child at the age of 17, keeping that child, going to prison, swearing off any serious form of relationship. No, the thing people find most unbelievable about her is her dislike of The Beatles.

She doesn’t hate The Beatles. If Mary Margaret were to play a song in the car, she wouldn’t throw a fit… but she would politely ask her to play something different. If a song were to come on the radio in her own car though, she wouldn’t hesitate to smash the tuner to a different station. And it’s possible that she may have once called into a radio station to complain about the abysmal taste of whoever requested that damn yellow submarine song.

“You drive a yellow bug. You lived in it for a while, didn’t you? How do you not like Yellow Submarine?” What a good question, Shelly in the prison cafeteria. Why wouldn’t she like a song that reminds her of the time she spent homeless, living in a tiny, cramped car that lacked viable air conditioning, with her deadbeat boyfriend?

She could blame her dislike of the band on the crappy foster mother who worshiped them—the same foster mother who made her listen to their music while she washed the dishes and scrubbed the toilet and folded her underwear, who told her listening to their music while doing chores would “help her build character.” She could blame it on the girl who sat next to her in 8th grade and doodled their lyrics on her notebook, the same girl that spilled grape juice down her back while she sat alone at lunch and told other students she had lice. She could blame it on the first boy she ever kissed, the boy who offered to walk her home from school, gave her an earbud to listen along to his walkman, and would only accept a kiss as thanks for his chivalrous actions—pushing her up against the wall of her foster families home and planting his entirely unwanted, sloppy mouth on her.

She could come up with a multitude of reasons for why she doesn’t like the revolutionary, music legends but what it really comes down to is that she just doesn’t like their music. It’s not her taste. She’s never heard a song of theirs and thought wow, this is great.

When Killian Jones came along with his stupidly blue eyes, stupider flirty grins, and stupidest tattoo of the lyrics to Blackbird along the top of his back, she was sure to hate him. Hell, when Mary Margaret invited her and Henry to come along on a sailing trip with him and he’d anchored the boat, pulled off his shirt, and jumped in the water, she very nearly pushed him straight back in when he came out and she noticed the black lines of script across his skin.

“I’m a bloody brit, love. Of course I like the band,” he said when she scoffed at the tattoo.

She hadn’t known about his time in the navy then, or about his brother. She hadn’t known about how they would sing Beatles songs while working on the ship together. She certainly hadn’t known about how before that, after their father abandoned them, Liam would play their music as Killian fell asleep at night because they young boy couldn’t stand the feeling of loneliness the silence left.

By the time she knew all of that, his fondness for the band was so far down on the list of Things About Killian That Annoy Her, it hardly registered.

When he asked her out, not for the first time but the first time she accepted his offer, she’d only had one condition, that he let her plan the date. She knew Paul McCartney was soon to be in town, had already purchased tickets for him and a friend of his chosing as an early birthday gift. She decided it would make for the best damn first date he’d even been on. Even if she wouldn’t be entirely thrilled.

It was good. She actually had fun, way more fun than to be expected at a concert where she doesn’t like any of the music. But Killian was so happy when he realized where she’d taken him—squeezed her in so tight of a hug he nearly broke a rib.

“The seats aren’t outstanding but they’re decent.” She shrugged after he set her down, running his hand up and down her arm, stopping to squeeze just above the bend of her elbow.

“Love, you could tell me I have to listen from the bloody restroom and I’d be ecstatic.”

He radiated sheer joy and excitement from the moment they stepped into the arena. And before long, his enthusiasm seemed to rub off on her and she could feel a grin splitting her cheeks wide enough to match his.

“Admit it. You’re having fun,” he demanded sometime around the seventh song. His eyes were so bright in the dim lighting, she was certain that, if he looked, Paul McCartney himself would be able to see them from the stage.

“I’m enjoying the atmosphere and this beer. And when you’re not pestering me, I’m enjoying your company. But I’m not enjoying the music.”

Killian shook his head at that and returned his attention to the stage.

He spent a lot of time singing the music at her. Emma tried to be annoyed but he accompanied his singing with cheesy head movements and dance moves that should have just looked ridiculous but he somehow made work. So instead of being irritated, she spent most of the time thoroughly entertained.

Things took a turn after the final chords of And I Love Her faded out and she could recognize the beginning of Blackbird. Killian shuffled backwards and pulled her in front of him, planting his arm fully across her stomach, his index finger locking itself onto the belt loop on her hip. Halfway through the song, he buried his face into the hair on her neck, his chest rising and falling heavily against her back. She pretended not to notice the slight dampness she felt there.

He pulled his face back once the song ended but he otherwise didn’t move. The position they were in should have been awkward, with the little bit of space they were afforded between rows of seats and the way her toes precariously balanced off the edge of the concrete. But it wasn’t. It was nice.

Nice became interesting when a song she didn’t recognize began.

“Do you know this one?” he asked drawing her hair to one side and then placing his palm flat against her stomach, his pinky toying with the edge of her shirt, brushing along the strip of exposed skin.

“I may have heard it before? I don’t recognize it though.”

“Something. Frank Sinatra called it the best love song ever written,” he murmured, his lips grazing the shell of her ear.

“Oh?”

He hummed affirmatively in response.

The lyrics were lovely and McCartney sure could sing them well (especially for his age) but Emma couldn’t be sure if her positive reaction was in response the song itself or the feeling of Killian’s tongue against her neck.

He started the song off with light opened mouth kisses in a line down from her ears. But the pressure of his lips soon grew more intense, leaving her wondering if she’d have to wear a turtle neck around her child the next day. His hand moved fully beneath her shirt, fingers splayed against her warm skin. By the time the three-minute song was over, her knees were weak and his breath was hot and erratic on her neck.

“Emma,” he’d nearly grunted her name.

“Yeah?”

“Can I take you home now?”

“Now? I looked up the set list before coming and I’m pretty sure there’s still a couple of songs left and then a like seven song encore,” she babbled, her eyes staring unseeing across the crowd in front of them.

“I’ve heard enough.”

“Are you sure?”

“If it’s too soon or that’s something you don’t want I understand,” he said, turning her around to face him and she nearly fell backward at the unchecked intensity in his gaze. “But if you have no objections, I’d very much like to take you home, put that song on repeat, and make you fall to pieces until you can no longer see straight.”

Something hot and promising coiled in her lower stomach and all she could do was nod at her purse on the floor, which he bent to pick up for her.

The line for the merchandise stand was nearly empty (everyone else preoccupied with the show) and Emma insisted on buying him a t shirt before they left. He settled on something simple, plain black with Paul McCartney written across the front in white lettering and the tour dates on the back. He refused to let her pay and even picked out some buttons for her.

When they finally arrived at his apartment, her entire body was vibrating with anticipation. Killian lead her up to his door with his hand on her lower back and the hair on her arms stood on end. He guided her, giddy and breathless, down the hallway to his room. And the rest went exactly as he promised.

She fell asleep, elated and sated, tracing the lines of scriptalong his back with her finger, listening to him hum contentedly.

—

After that night, she couldn’t hear that song without getting aroused—not his stated intention but surely his intention none the less.

—

Their relationship was good, incredibly good. They had so much in common when it came to their pasts. (“Birds of a feather, Swan.”) And they just worked well.

Killian was wonderful at respecting her boundaries and understanding when something would be too much or too soon for her. Having known each other for so long already, he knew her discomforts and insecurities—what she could handle and what would make her run for the hills. He let her take the reigns most of the time, satisfied to let her set the pace of progression.

He was a patient and tolerant man but he also recognized when she needed help. He wouldn’t always let her hide behind her walls. Killian coerced her a little here and a little there, knocking a singular brick down at a time. Other times, he outright pushed, taking a sledgehammer to large portions. Piece by piece, chunk by chunk, they dismantled her walls until nothing remained but gravel at her feet.

She thought at least the walls were demolished. But one brick remained, a small piece, but enough to cause a large stumble.

Stumble she did.

When he came home one day (not yet his official home but he spent more time with her and Henry than at his own apartment) and, clearly in discomfort, wouldn’t settle back against the couch cushion, she wondered if he’d been hurt on his boat. He pushed aside her concern, telling her he must have simply slept on his back wrong.

“It’s a little tender. That’s all.”

She’d believed him. Her mattress wasn’t exactly a memory foam, nearly as old as Henry and unforgivingly solid. (Killian was a little particular at that point, preferring a soft mattress.) But when he’d gotten in the shower and actually locked the bathroom door, when Henry was at a friend’s of all nights, she was worried.

“Killian, I know there’s a bobby pin around here somewhere. Don’t make me find one.”

“I just need a moment, lass. Don’t go knocking down any doors.”

The final straw was him getting in bed with a t-shirt on.

“Take it off.”

“It’s a little chilly tonight.”

“It’s July and you don’t even sleep with a shirt on in the winter. Take. It. Off.”

She fucking lost it. He’d went and got a fucking tattoo. A stupid fucking black swan tattoo. A stupid fucking swan, taking flight, painted in black ink with white stars scattered about and what she was sure to be the Cygnus constellation standing out from the other stars in larger dots of ink. And he went and got it placed directly under his stupid fucking Beatles lyrics tattoo.

It was all too much, too soon.

He tried to talk her down. He tried to explain that the meaning wasn’t that serious. He’d always intended to get some sort of bird there and what’s more unique than a black swan. He’s a naval man you see, love. Constellations a part of his very blood. The Cygnus had always been one of his favorites, long before he met her. It was more of an homage to his brother and his time serving than it was to her.

He presented his case as well as he could have but she wasn’t having it. The more she focused on it the more she realized how fast they’d moved, how quickly things became serious—serious in a way she’d never experienced.

She told him as such and that she needed time and space. He questioned if she was breaking up with him and all she could give him for an answer was that she didn’t know.

That blow up happened three weeks ago. It’s been three weeks of Emma Swan resolutely ignoring Killian Jones, every aspect of their relationship and every person who wanted to discuss him.

A week ago he seemed to get the message that she wasn’t going to answer his calls or respond to his texts.

So it would be just her luck to run into him outside of their favorite coffee place.

She pushes open the coffee cup decaled, glass door, expecting to leave happily with her mocha cappuccino only to nearly spill her to go cups contents down the front of one Killian Jones.

“You good?” he asks with a tiny smile, after steadying her with his hand and making sure she doesn’t topple over.

“Yeah,” she responds a little dazed. It’s been three weeks since she’s seen him when before that she’d seen him nearly every day for over a year.

He looks good, damn good.

“You look good, Swan,” (clearly thinking the same as her) he says gently as if he’s trying not to scare her off. He gives her a slight once over and his small grin turns into a chuckle.

“What?” she demands, agitated, at him, at the circumstances, at her shitty luck, and most of all, at herself for seeing his smile and realizing she still wants him so badly it fucking hurts.

“Not a thing. You just look good,” he says, shaking his head and grinning at the ground. As she turns to leave, he stops her. “I don’t want to start a fight here. All I ask is that you give us one more shot at discussing this before writing me out of your life completely. It’d be my largest regret in life to lose you.”

She nods, feeling shell-shocked and turns to leave for real this time, ignoring his second outburst of laughter.

—

It’s not until that she strips for her shower that night that she finds the source of his humor. She’d been wearing the shirt he bought the night of the concert. She sighs heavily at the realization, in her silent bathroom.

That damn Paul McCartney.

—

It takes another week and a half for her to get herself together and call Killian. He tries to hide his excitement, giving off an air of nonchalance, but she can still hear it in his voice. She sets up a date for them to meet and talk and he ends the call with “I know you probably don’t want to hear it but I need to say this. I love you, Swan and I’ll never stop fighting for you. So be prepared for that when you come over.”

She’s not prepared, never really has been when it comes to him. He starts right off the bat with the heavy hitters. Why they should be together, how well they work, how much he loves her, how much he loves Henry. He takes back nearly everything he said the night of their argument.

“I lied the other night. You and I both know that. This tattoo is essentially all for you. There are other meanings tied in but I’m not fooling anyone by saying I didn’t get it with you in mind.” He pauses, taking several, deep breaths, looking nearly pained. “I’ve had these words on my back ‘blackbird singing in the dead of night, take these broken wings and learn to fly’ never really believing in them, believing that I could achieve those words. Until I met you. I understood meeting you, falling in love with you is what’s healed my metaphorical broken wings. I can fly now because of you. You were my moment to arise.”

She tries fruitlessly to blink back her tears but she can’t stop them. He takes her in his arms, tucking her face into the crook of his neck and cupping the back of her head.

“Shh. I don’t expect you to respond with anything nearly as sappy. I know you’re not as good with words as me.”

“No one is,” she chuckles weakly against his skin.

“I just need to know if you’re willing to take this bird back in,” he says seriously, pulling back slightly to look in her eyes.

“Yeah, I am.”

“We’re birds of a feather, my love. We need to flock together.” He grins stupidly bright down at her and she pushes him away at the cheesy words.

—

Years later she surprises him with a tattoo of her own, one he is much more welcoming to. In small black letters, she gets the word ‘something’ on the inside of her ring finger.

She’s a little bit proud of herself when he cries.


End file.
